


A Raven Calls in Qasr

by GodmotherToClarion



Series: Sped By Flame [3]
Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Splash Free, Arabian AU, Backstory, Deception, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Drama, Epic Battles, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Major Character Injury, Married Nanase Haruka/Tachibana Makoto, Milad is Makoharu's son, No Major Character Death, Plots, Rating for depictions of war and violence, Secret Organizations, War, You Have Been Warned, but take note of the happy ending tag, it starts off light but gets dark pretty fast, this is a war fic guys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-28
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-07-03 15:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15821616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodmotherToClarion/pseuds/GodmotherToClarion
Summary: Fourteen years after Haru’s departure from Iwatobi, he and Makoto find themselves thrown into a decades-long war between devils and men.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I know I said this would be up later, but I'm just posting the prologue for now. Please read the first volume in the series before starting this one, because the setting and characters won't make sense otherwise!

At nearly sixteen years of age, Milad Tachibana fancied himself a man. 

Of course, he never dared to say this to his parents: his  _ aita  _ would give him a look of reproach and then a set of lessons that were twice as long as usual, while his father would only laugh and tell Milad a tale of his own youth long ago. But now that Milad was close upon his sixteenth birthday he thought himself too old for stories and reproofs, as lads often do in the handful of years before their comings-of-age. This small vanity was perhaps his only fault, and that too brought upon by a lifetime of minding his little friends and cousins; in all other matters he was a wise and humble boy, obeying his  _ aita  _ and father at all they asked of him. 

Despite its seeming innocence this one fault brought him to trouble, as is the way of things—it takes but one link poorly wrought to sever a chain completely, and so it proved to be with  _ shahzada _ Milad of Sardahan. But he was a good and faithful child and seemingly born under some bright star of fair fortune, so he muddled through his trials as best he could and defeated them almost without realizing that he had suffered at all. It is usually so with boys, especially those who have known such loving care as Milad’s parents had given him. 

By the common laws of Qasr he would have been an orphan, brought up in the palace by whomever might wish to have him after his mother’s death—if not for his  _ aita  _ Prince Haruka, who had taken Milad into the household as his son. It was thus that the toddling baby became a prince himself, first of the kingdom of Iwatobi in the West where his  _ aita  _ was born and then of Atar Qasr when his parents were wed a year later. Milad worshipped his father and the ground upon which he trod, but the love he held for his  _ aita  _ ran deeper even than that; to him Haru was mother and father both, and more of the first than the latter. His father taught him to fence and spar, to look upon men and beasts alike with kindness and think of his people with the gentle regard of one who would aid in their governing someday—but from his  _ aita  _ Milad had the ringing light of his laughter, the turn in his mouth when he stooped over his governess’s manuscripts, the soft clear pitch of his voice whenever he raised it in song and his graceful hand with a brush upon a stretch of canvas. The crown prince Makoto had given Milad his house and his name, and Haru had given the child his heart. 

It was for the sake of his  _ aita  _ and father together that Milad followed his parents across the realm to a land too bitter and perilous for men, dogging their footsteps with valor born both of his foolishness and his fear at parting from them. What befell them there was not his duty to say, for neither he nor Makoto witnessed the whole of the trouble; it was Haruka who shouldered the worst of the burden alone, and so the city of Sardahan saw the grief of the tale from his eyes. Time and again the townsfolk thought the story stranger even than a dream, but such was Haruka’s fate—from before his birth he was forged to spare his country from ruin, and it was there by the Eastern sea that he gave his life to do it. 


	2. Fourteen Years Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Haruka Tachibana turns thirty-four.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I am so sorry for this late update. I've been incredibly busy lately, and it's only going to get busier from here on out :( but I'm so excited to finally bring the first chapter to you all! Enjoy!!

On the thirtieth day of Aran-hazad, Makoto rose from his bed with the sun. The waxing light on the marble floor was tinted with pink and crimson like the clouds hanging over the citadel, and at the sight he lifted his arms and put out a hand to the window-sash. In the square below the marketplace shone like a bush of star-blossoms in bloom, for during the last month of spring the mornings glistened like gold and brought forth the beauty of Sardahan at the fairest height of its power. 

As Makoto sat gazing past the drapes the blankets stirred behind him, falling back to reveal a long plait of pitch-dark hair tied with a length of purple ribbon. The slender figure wrapped in the covers seemed only half-awake, grumbling like a drowsy child as it turned to bury its face in the bolster. 

“ _ Ohayou _ , Haru-chan,” smiled Makoto, taking the bundle of quilts in his arms. “ _ Kush’al-Milad,  _ my love.”

“Aye, my thirty-fourth,” came the dismal voice. At the sullen reply Makoto burst into laughter and kicked the blankets away, pulling his husband close to his chest and setting his chin on his shoulder. 

“What did you say to me when I passed my thirtieth winter, my heart?”

“Nothing, save to wish you joy for rest of the year before you,” teased Haru. “I am wiser than to mind my age, you know—but your birth-anniversary falls in Kanun-al-Adar, and then a fortnight after mine—”

“I shall not bear to see Milad in long robes,” groaned Makoto, dropping back onto the pillows. “Why do our lads change the short gowns for long ones so soon in the east, my heart? You changed yours at your coming-of-age, and Milad will not be a man by our custom for two years yet.”

“You must not say so before him,  _ jaanya _ ,” warned Haru. “He has been marking down the days until his changing of the robes, and it would grieve him terribly to know that you dread it so.”

“ _ You _ wore your short gowns about the city as you pleased before we were married.” Makoto sprang up again and took Haru’s hands in his, holding them fast as the younger prince bit back a snort of mirth. “Surely Milad can do the same, if he likes.”

“I was not yet wed to your house, my love,” came the reply. “The men and maidens of the West do not come of age until twenty, and so by Sahrastani law I was still only a child. Now set the matter aside and dress, or we shall be late to breakfast.”

Makoto nodded and went across to the washroom, where he took a stick of birch from the cupboard and set it alight with a match; once the polished twig was aflame he swept it over his face, singing away the curling hairs that grew on his cheeks and chin. Once his jaw was smooth again he rinsed his brow with cool water, cleaning the grit from beneath his lashes and lining his eyes with kohl. He wore the paint thicker than Haru did, bringing the black lines up from his eyelids until the last slivers of bronzen skin beneath had vanished into shadow. After his eyes were finished with he took a stick of neem to clean his teeth, scrubbing them with the pungent bristles and spitting into the slop jar before going back to the bedroom. 

Haru was sitting by the glass, drawing an ivory comb through his braids as he always did after waking. He had not cut his long dark hair since he was a lad of twenty, and now the black tresses fell from his brow to gather like sillk round his knees. Though Makoto had seen him wield his brush for nearly the past fifteen years the rise and fall of Haru’s broad hands never ceased to betwitch him, with the fair slim fingers half-vanishing between shadowy locks and smoothing the snarls in their wake—and since they were married Haru had never once finished the task alone, for without fail his beloved came to sit beside him and saw to the rest himself. 

“You are too rough with your hair,  _ amarya _ ,” said the Qasrian, lifting his voice in a gentle reproof as he took the brush from Haru and set to work untangling a knot near the younger prince’s neck. “Let me plait it for you, Haru-chan.”

“Aye, if you wish it,” smiled Haru, laying his cheek against Makoto’s and pressing a kiss to his nose. 

“On either side from your temples, then?”

Haru nodded his assent as Makoto set to work, pulling back a finger’s width of strands from either side of his head and braiding them together so that the remainder of his hair was bound behind them. Once the plait passed Haru’s waist Makoto secured the ends with the violet bow, tying it fast as the door to their quarters burst open and ushered their laughing son over the threshold. 

Though Milad shared no blood with the princes vistors to the court were hard-pressed to remember it, for despite the rarity of pitch-black hair in the East his raven head was precisely as dark as Haru’s. The child’s bright eyes were a strange deep mix of violet and emerald, a common hue in Qasr; but when he stood between his parents it seemed as if he saw the world through the stormy blue of Haruka’s gaze mingled with Makoto’s sea-green, favoring the court with Makoto’s smiles and Haru’s ringing laughter. He had grown well for his sixteen years, standing at nearly Haru’s height with sturdy arms and legs, and nimble enough to escape Makoto’s hold in the wresting ring one turn out of every three. Now and again his fathers wept when they looked at him, for in his sunbrowned face they saw the toddling baby of their bygone youth together with the prince fast drawing nigh to manhood, and though Milad was eager to take his place in court his parents wished that time might loosen its hold for a while on the dearest treasure they had. 

“Aita!” cried Milad, bouncing into the glittering chamber and sitting at Makoto’s feet. “Quickly, quickly—Uncle Rin and the rest have laid a feast in Grandmother’s dining room for your birthday, and here you and Papa have not yet dressed yourselves.”

“And you have not yet bound your hair, my son,” laughed Haru, taking a ribbon from the drawer of his dressing-table and weaving Milad’s rumpled braids into a coronet round his head. “Go put on your sash, and then we shall go to the others.”

* * *

The late forenoon found Haru alone in the armory, garbing himself in a set of fencing mail. Makoto had been called away to settle a dispute in the northern quarter, leaving his husband to eat a hasty luncheon with Milad before the lad ran off to his lessons with Gou. The rest of the men in Haru’s regiment had been at their training for nearly an hour when he let himself into the chamber, searching the ranks for a head of ruddy curls until he caught sight of the General. 

“Haru!” called the older man, halting his match mid-stroke to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Where have you been all the morning?”

“Milad needed my aid with the Marmayan dialect,” grunted the prince, warding a blow from Seijurou’s staff as the general’s erstwhile sparring-double made off for a drink of water. “Makoto is gone to the  _ shamali  _ sector, so it was left to me.”

The past fourteen years had brought little change to Seijurou, save for a sprinkling of steel-grey hairs growing near the back of his crown. But his body was altered wholly, covered in hardy muscle from the cords of his throat to his ankles, and every inch of his heavy limbs astir with unrivaled power; his litheness in combat was no match for Haru’s, but for nearly the last two decades he had outstripped his fellows for strength. It was this that kept him in the ring long after the younger soldiers were spent, and as ever he and Haru were the last still standing upright when the gong down the passage struck three. At the sound of the bell they dismissed the guards and trudged back into the armory, washing the sweat from their limbs under the pump in the corner and garbing themselves in clean white tunics after wrestling one another for the drying-cloths. 

Theirs was a curious friendship, though the past decade and a half had brought them as near as two brothers-in-arms could be. To Haru the redheaded General was part and parcel of the city itself, walking the palace corridors with a third of Sahrastan’s lifeblood roiling like fire in his limbs. The rest belonged to Makoto and Rin, for the three were beloved to one another as if they shared the same parents. In his bygone youth Haru had admired Seijurou greatly, and after his marriage he found that the General’s company was as good a cure as any for his elder cousin Akihiro’s absence; the warmth that flowed from Seijurou’s laughter upheld the grace of Aki’s memory, and kept its joy from fading better than either Rei or Haru could do alone. 

“Will you and the little ones dine with us to-night?” Haru asked, pulling the band from his dusty hair and knotting it back in a plait. “Milad mentioned—”

To his astonishment Seijurou coughed and ducked into a cupboard to stifle a shout of mirth, emerging a minute later with scarlet cheeks as Haru stood by with his surcoat over his arm. “Nay, he did not mean me and Gou. It seems he and Aisha have some business in the kitchens with Azar, though neither she nor Milad will say what they are about.”

The prince put on his jacket and hurried out of the armory with Seijurou at his heels, vowing to seek out the kindly cook and ask what Aisha had meant; when Rin and Makoto were children Azar found out their mischief without fail, and in return for her silence she drove them into the kitchens and gave them up to her serving-maids to put to work as they pleased. Haru snorted at the thought, for in his youth his nursemaid Miho had managed her three charges in a similar fashion; whenever he and Aki dared cross her she brought her mending to the nursery and taught them to sew and darn, scolding the lads for their crooked seams until they went back to begin the work anew. Once when they were very small Aki had looked askance at the bobbins and tried to eat them instead, whereupon their tutor Sasabe appeared and set him a recitation longer than Miho’s arm. But whether by chance or the Goddess’s grace small Milad had none of Haru’s mischief, for though he was his fathers’ only son he was the first of the palace children, and so the young prince had been given more brothers and sisters than he knew what to do with—but dearest to him was Seijurou’s daughter Aisha, and though the rest called him  _ nii-chan  _ Aisha had never once uttered the word herself. 

“Perhaps we need not bother about those two,  _ bhaiya, _ ” he said, chortling as he parted from Sei at the landing and let himself into his quarters. “After all, they have the little ones after them wherever they go—what mischief can they find with the children about?”

* * *

“Fourteen days, my love.”

Haru stirred and opened an eye to stare into Makoto’s face, laughing at the turn in his husband’s mouth before smoothing it flat with a kiss. Though the hour was late the pair had betaken themselves to the kitchens, lying together on the window-seat facing the courtyard with the curtains swept shut behind them; though it was Haru’s  _ Kush’al-Milad  _ they had received scarcely an hour to pass without the others, and once their son was asleep in his bedroom they left their apartments and went to have a late supper with the Qasrian night for company. 

“The time will go swifter the longer you think upon it, sweetheart,” he chided, tucking himself into Makoto’s robe to keep the draft from his shoulders. Sardahan grew chill by night in the early days of summer, and Haru’s blood had still not grown used to the milder clime of the East; in Kanun al-Adar he spent his evenings beneath a heap of blankets, nestled close to Makoto’s side to banish the cold from his limbs. 

“I know,” groaned the elder prince, pulling his beloved close to his chest and setting his chin in his hair. “But I cannot help it,  _ rouhiya _ . It seems only yesterday I was twenty-one and mashing bitter gourd for his supper, or giving him orange-slices to chew when he cut his first two teeth. He was the dearest baby, Haru, dearer than even the twins—”

“Aye, he was,” sighed Haru. “Do you remember how he hated his bathtub, Makoto? He would not let me touch him with the flannel until I put him in the water-kettle instead, and when he grew too tall for it he cried until Rei came down to scold him.”

“And then he went to hide in the kitchens with Azar and rolled himself into the onion basket.”

“Rei must have told him of how he hid from Miho in a potato-bin when we were little lads,” laughed the younger man, taking Makoto’s hands in his and folding them over his breast. “And of my foolishness with my lessons—do you recall the morning he ran away from the schoolroom and went to the falcons’ keep to train with Alsiya?”

“I do,” grumbled Makoto, drawing Haru nearer still. “I swore to the Goddess I would tie him to my girdle after that—I was never so frightened in my life as I was when Gou sent word that she had not seen him once all afternoon . I would have fainted dead away if you had not held me upright, and then again when we found him handling Alsiya without an attendant to watch him.”

“You  _ did  _ tie him to your girdle,  _ jaanya _ ,” whispered his husband. “For nearly a week he followed wherever you went, and though you gave him leave to go he clung to your side until he fell asleep in your lap during court.”

“And when you were hurt in the raid ten years ago,” croaked Makoto, tightening his grasp round Haru’s waist at the memory. “He sat beside you in the healers’ ward from dawn to dusk, and though I could only weep he sang you Aki’s old tales until you awoke again.”

“Aye,” breathed Haru, pressing his sleeves to his face until they grew dark with water. “And when we could not go to the West for the summer he vowed he would never cut his hair save in mourning, so that I might grieve less for Sahrastan when he grew to be a man.”

With that he turned his cheek into Makoto’s neck and burst into tears, for though small Milad was bright and quick to laughter as he was in his babyhood the years had gone too quickly; Haru cared nothing for the loss of his own youth, for before he was twenty he had devoted its joy to his son. But still he could not bear to believe that his child was nearly a man, and at the thought of the lad giving up his short gowns and taking a seat in court he covered his eyes and sobbed. 

“These fifteen years ought to have gone slower than this,” he choked, trembling like a leaf as Makoto cried into his shoulder. “Today the changing of the robes, tomorrow his coming-of-age and a place in the Eastern infantry—and he is not bound by law to our house, sweetheart! There is no duty to keep him in Sardahan if he should wish to go, and how shall we bear it then?”

Before his husband found breath enough to reply there came the soft hiss of well-oiled hinges and the sound of two pairs of footsteps letting themselves into the chamber, followed by a thud and a groan as the newcomers stubbed their toes on the bin of roots by the door. 

“Are you hurt, Milad?” came a soft-spoken cry, followed by a grin from the lad in question as the princes drew back the curtain an inch to peer round the linen hems. Makoto drew in a breath at the sight of the girl at Milad’s left, for he and Haru could not have loved her better if she was a child of their blood—and now that she stood with the moonlight full on her face they saw that she too was changed, altered for ever from the toddling baby who had learned to creep about by clutching her mother’s long braids to keep herself upright. If Milad had not lifted his voice then his parents would have grieved anew, but as it was they stopped their mouths with their handkerchieves and pricked up their ears to listen. 

“Nay,” he laughed, standing on pointed toes and putting his head into Azar’s pastry cupboard. “Shall you have rose for your sweetmeats, Aisha? There is lavender, too, if you want it.”

“Bring both of them, then,” she said, jumping up onto the scrubbed wooden table and folding her skirts beneath her. Milad answered with a nod and filled a bowl with sweet buns, putting one into his mouth before going to sit on the bench by Aisha’s feet. “Did you only wake me to raid Aunt Azar’s pantry?”

“No, I suppose not,” mumbled Milad. He set the dish on Aisha’s lap and put his fingers together, striking the floor with the copper plates of his shoes so that Haru’s swift gasp in the shadows went unheard. The lad’s brown cheeks were flushed as if he had run a long way, and though there had never been any unease between the two friends he seemed as bashful as a new sweetheart to stand in her presence. At this Makoto opened his mouth and looked at Haru in wonder, parting the curtains further to stare in Milad’s direction. 

“Are you fretting about the tournament?” asked Aisha kindly, setting a broad white palm atop her companion’s head. “I know you would have been permitted to take part by fifteen in your  _ aita’s  _ kingdom, but as prince of Qasr you must keep the Eastern custom. You scarcely pass Mother’s height, Milad-chan, and only the first-year sentries are a match for you in battle. A man might be wounded on the jousting field no matter how great his strength, and you have neither the weight nor the knowledge to join the matches yet.”

“I never thought Father would put me into the ranks, Aisha,” said Milad, filling the room with a peal of mirth as she tugged at his crooked braids. “Uncle Sanim swore I should go if I defeated him once, and I will keep my oath to train with him until then.”

“Good lad,” she chuckled, whisking three rose-cakes out of the bowl before bolting them down at a mouthful. “Uncle Sanim knows best on the field, just as Father does in the fencing ring.”

“Aye, nobody can learn from Aita so well as they do from Uncle Sei,” sighed the little prince, dropping his chin on the table. “He said I would master the double-knives if I gave it time enough, but I have not the strength in my left hand that he does. And his speed, Aisha-chan! none of the rest can match it, no matter how earnestly they try.”

“ _ I  _ have been growing better at the double-knives,” sang Aisha, giggling like a brook in the springtime as Milad’s jaw fell open. “Last Isha’s day I held my own against Uncle Haru for nearly a minute and a half, and again two days after that.”

“ _ Aisha! _ ” cried Milad in delight, taking her hands in his. “None of the others, not even in Father’s regiment—”

“I know,” smiled the maiden, seizing upon the prince’s wonder and filling his mouth with almond-rolls. “Mother told me so. But what are we doing in the kitchens?”

Milad blushed crimson and hid his face in his sleeves, choking down the confections before parting his lips to speak. 

“My—my changing of the robes, in Subat.”

“What about it?” Aisha blinked, poking his knee with her slipper. “Do you not wish to have it? Or to wait until your coming-of-age, like Ran and Ren did?”

“No,” stammered Milad, wringing his hands as his neck went darker still. “The custom at the closing prayer, you know—that I may give a favor to the one I mean to court after my eighteenth birthday?”

“Yes, I remember,” said his friend. “When Yashun had hers she gifted a spray of lilac to Rayan’s nephew.”

“I—I meant to ask since last winter, Aisha, but if you do not think—”

“Lover’s grace.”

“What?” The poor boy stopped in his tracks, gazing at Aisha in disbelief as she dusted the crumbs from her face. “Lover’s grace?”

“That is the bloom I like best,” she answered. “I think there is time enough for you to send for some from the growing-houses.”

“You, you mean you—”

Aisha laughed again and bent at the waist to kiss his crimson forehead, setting her palm on his cheek and looking him full in the eye. The startled catch of Milad’s breath sounded like a stifled sob, and across the chamber his parents were nearly shrieking in glee from behind the curtains. 

“Aye, I do,” she said. “I would have asked it of  _ you  _ if you had not spoken, and then aunt Sakura would have laughed herself into a fit for your shyness.”

“Momo and Aunt Sakura will laugh whatever I do,” grinned Milad. “That is their way. Shall we go back, then?”

“Aye, we could,” rejoined Aisha. “But the gardens are fair as Heaven to-night, and it would be a pity to let their beauty go to waste.”

“As you will,  _ aynee _ ,” said the lad. He shook the bits of pastry from his gown and offered Aisha his arm, lifting her down from the table before they quit the kitchens together. The moment they were gone Makoto tumbled off the window-seat and struck his head on the floor, lying flat on the flagstones for a moment before Haru gave a strangled cry and pulled him up to his feet. 

“ _ Makoto! _ ” he said, staring up into his husband’s face with eyes as round as coins. “Makoto!”

“Aye, I know!” shouted the elder prince, gaping in shock at the door where Milad and Aisha had vanished. “He—all this while—”

“Perhaps it is not so cruel that he is grown after all, then,” whispered Haru. “I would dearly love to call her my daughter someday, and sooner rather than late.”

“Scarcely five of the palace youths presented favors at their surcoat ceremonies last year,” said Makoto. “And a prince of the court has not done it since my grandfather’s time, sweetheart! Even Ren never thought of courting Aina until he was nearly eighteen.”

“Ran gave a rose to Hayato at hers, and she is your heir by blood,” Haru reminded him. “But they were already betrothed, so I suppose that is not the same.”

“No, it is not the same,” breathed the other. “Do you think he spoke of it to Gou? Or to Sei?”

“To Gou, certainly,” mused Haru, eating the last of Milad’s sweetmeats and licking the sugar from his fingers. “He took nearly a quarter-hour longer with his lessons yesterday, and I suppose he must have asked her leave then.”

For a minute they stood together in the grips of their sudden joy, clutching one another by the hand until Makoto broke the silence with a cavernous yawn and a sneeze.

“Shall we go to bed then, my love?” teased Haru, sending his husband a merry smile as he shut the clasps of his mantle. “It is late, and to-morrow we must meet with the council to see what is to be done about the Astaran passway.”

“And the young sentries, too,” sighed Makoto. “There are too many to teach this year, and scarcely a soul in Jarmah or Haifa to take them. I think we shall have to send the lot of them to study in Marmayah, or call for the elder soldiers to come and take the youths in hand. But tonight is your  _ Kush’al-Milad _ , my heart, and I shall not go bereft of this at least.”

With that he laid his hands on Haru’s shoulders and kissed him until they were made to part for breath, pressing their brows together as Haru shut his eyes and nearly fell into slumber on the spot. Makoto smiled and swept him up in his arms, paying no mind to the younger man’s protests as he strode down the torchlit corridor and into the gilded entrance-hall. 

“I am not so light as I used to be,” Haru warned, clutching at Makoto’s tunic as he began the walk up to their chambers. “If you drop me you shall never hear of the end of it, for Momo will hear of it somehow.”

“I will not let you go,  _ jaanya _ ,” vowed Makoto, steadying his weight as they passed the second level. Before they reached the door to their quarters Haru was fast asleep, and stopping to kiss his cheek Makoto put out a hand and lifted the carven latch. Once they had passed the threshold he went to lay Haru in their bedchamber, tucking him into the blankets before taking the rings from his fingers and dropping them into the shallow dish on the nightstand. 

“Good night, my darling,” he whispered, chuckling into the dark as the door to the passage beyond opened and shut a second time; Milad had returned from his tryst in the grounds with Aisha, bolting into his own room and flinging off his overcoat in the parlor without glancing back to see if his parents had noticed his absence. After the apartment was silent again Makoto closed his eyes and permitted his dreams to take him, dimly certain as he always was that Haru’s cool fingers had not yet left his own. 

* * *

_ “I have waited for you these past forty-two years, Prince Haruka.” _

_ He blinked and found himself alone in a long low chamber, lit by a line of hanging lamps burning dully in the shadows. All about him a row of shining white plinths stretched from north to south, twinkling here and there with burnished rubies and silver; where the gemstones caught the light they sparked and went out like a field of dying stars, casting a colored glow on the woman standing before him. As she met his gaze he thought perhaps he had seen her once before, though try as he might he could not recall who she was.  _

_ “Come, then.” _

_ “Have we met, sayidati?” he asked, permitting her to take his hands and draw him into the gloom.  _

_ “No, we have not,” she replied. “But you are known to me, and so am I to you.” _

_ For a while they walked in silence until they came to a block of polished marble; Haru stared at the thing in confusion, for never in all his years had he seen marble shaped in such a manner. In the West the rock was prized for the building of  _ alcazars,  _ and now he saw that the room was full of it: the still cold gleam was reflected from wall to wall without end, and at last he realized where he stood.  _

_ Over the course of his fifteen years in Sardahan Haru had never once entered the catacombs, but not from fear of the dark as Rin and Sei supposed. As part of their terms of betrothal Makoto had sworn that Haru would find his peace in the Iwatobian fashion, that he should be burned on a pyre as his Western honor demanded—for Makoto knew how terribly the white graves frightened his husband, and that his heart could not bear the thought of bodies rotting like carrion under his feet. In truth the younger prince thought it a crime that the dead should be left to suffer such indignity, but he said nothing about it; in marrying the lord of Qasr he had married the Qasrian people, and wherever their customs stood apart from his own he bowed his head and embraced them. But now and again he remembered anew that he was no child of the East, and so as he stared in horror at the grave he stumbled back and swept his cloak round his ankles, turning on his companion in a fury as he looked about for the door.  _

_ “Why have you brought me here, my lady?” he cried. “I must take my leave _ — _ ” _

_ “Nay,” she said, setting a hand on his arm. “I did not mean to frighten you, shahzada. Only to spare your life, and the life of your beloved.” _

_ “Makoto?” murmured Haru. He stopped and looked at the maiden’s face, half expecting to see his mother-in-law’s green eyes beneath the coils of black hair _ — _ but her eyes were the brown of dust after rain, and so he turned his gaze to her lips and the points of her teeth within. Though he could put no name to her he knew her mouth well enough, split by the Eastern suns and uplifted in raucous laughter _ —

_ “Who is buried here?” he asked, reaching for the vault with a trembling palm before snatching it back to his chest.  _

_ She motioned to the tomb and withdrew as Haru stepped nearer, glancing at the letters on the lid as if she had no need to see them for herself. But beside her the prince loosed a wrenching cry and clutched at his heart, staring at the glyps in terror until he began to scream.  _

_ “This is trickery,” he cried, shaking his head and pressing his hands to his face. “He lives, I know it _ — _ what devilry have you conjured?” _

_ “None,” whispered the lady. “None, shahzada. Only his truth, and yours.” _

_ The tomb was seven feet long and five and a half across: a double crypt, Haru thought, though at first he had not realized it. On the left a familiar sigil had been branded into the stone, bearing the crest of a rearing stallion before a ground of willows; Haru could not clearly see the blazon on the right for the blanket of dust above it, save that it seemed to made in the shape of a bird.  _

_ “That is not my seal,” he said, bewildered.  _

_ “No, it is not,” agreed the girl. She withdrew from the step and pulled Haru by the hand behind her, making for the stairs leading up to the entrance hall in the floor above.  _

_ “Whose is it, then?” _

_ “Mine.” _

_ Haru went after her without question, far too confused to make sense of the matter at all. He did not know who the maiden was, only that she bore a striking likeness to one who stood by him in life, but mired in the haze of a dream as he was he could not recall whom the soul might be. By the time he raised his head he found they had left the palace behind entirely, standing instead on the parapet overlooking the market below. The girl’s white arms were folded on the rail, and after looking about for a moment Haru went to join her.  _

_ “What is it you want of me, sayidati?” _

_ “Only this, Haru, and then I will not trouble you again.” She pointed to the city gates and the line of shining silver before them, and then the dull cloud of grey and black some three hundred yards away. “The regiment—do you see them?” _

_ But Haru did not see her, for the instant he saw the sparkling helm of the man at the army’s fore he knew it at once, knew it as he knew the pale silk flag tied to the stipe of the soldier’s lance. The guard bore the seal of Qasr’s crown prince, and at the warm voice drifting back up to the gardens he cried out and turned away.  _

_ “I have suffered this already,” he shouted, backing away from the rail and covering his eyes. “What cause have you to bring me here—the past is over and done! I saw him wounded once, and I will not see it again!” _

_ “You never saw how it happened,” said the girl impassively, setting a hand on the small of his back to push him forward. “Look, Lord Haruka, or it shall be repeated.” _

_ For a moment Haru stood shaking his head, straining at the iron grip his companion had on his arm. He sobbed aloud in anguish as he saw the brigands draw closer, calling Makoto’s name from the battlements as the figure astride the grey warhorse ripped its bright sword from the scabbard.  _

_“No,” he wept. “Have you no heart at all? Not again, sayidati,_ _never!”_

_ “Look,” said the maid, and her voice was strangely gentle. “You must not falter now.” _

_ “This is the day he was wounded by the brigands, the year before we were married,” he gasped. “I stood on the terrace and looked for him, just as I am doing. But—” _

_ “Aye,” whispered the other.  _

_ “But he was four leagues away!” murmured Haru. “I could no more have seen this that morning than you could. There was no battle fought before the gates in my time, at least not after I came to live in Sardahan.” _

_ As they watched they saw that Makoto kept himself as a shield for the men behind them, never permitting his brothers-in-arms to draw abreast with his horse. He was not carrying the two-handed blade that his father had commissioned for his eighteenth birthday, but a longer weapon nearly the match of the old one; Haru wondered perhaps if his beloved had not yet come of age, or if he was to give up his broadsword in the future.  _

_ “Haru.” _

_ At the girl’s command he followed her pointing finger and froze, for by some strange trick of chance Makoto had no second at his left. Seijurou always went beside him to protect his shield-side, and now in his place there was only a dark-haired sentry who could not have been more than sixteen.  _

_ “Makoto!” he cried. “Makoto, amarya—” _

_ But the wail had come twofold, torn from the wind in Haru’s lungs and the lips of the woman beside him. As he turned to face her he saw that she had fallen to the ground, clutching at her throat as the whoop of a bowstring shattered the silence like stone through a pane of glass. The little sentry was less than a fathom from death, blind to its rattling voice as it sang through the air towards him—but at that moment Makoto flung himself from the saddle and into the path of the barb, taking the black-painted arrow full in the chest as it smote between his ribs. When he fell back into the rising dust he did not move again, for in its flight the arrow’s head had cloven his heart in two.  _

* * *

“ _ Jaanya _ , my sweetheart—Haru-chan, look at me—”

He idly wondered who was screaming like a wounded  _ nasir _ in his chambers, searching blindly for Makoto until he realized that the gasping shrieks were pouring from his own mouth; he shuddered at the weight on his chest and saw that a pair of sunbrowned hands lay heavy on his shoulders, pressing him into the cushions to keep him from falling as he writhed among the bedclothes. At the touch he drew in a halting breath and sobbed, turning his cheek to the pillows as a crash and a cry sounded from the parlor beyond. 

“Aita?” shouted Milad, breaking the latch with a mighty kick before stumbling into the bedroom. “What—”

“Go fetch Rei,” said Makoto, bundling Haru into his lap and making quick work of the sweat-stained laces at his collar. The moment he spoke the child was gone, running out into the corridor as his  _ aita  _ fought for breath in his father’s arms. 

“Makoto,” he choked, clawing desperately at his husband’s wrists as he struggled for air. “Water—”

Makoto snatched up the glass on the nightstand and brought it close to his lips, holding it still as Haru drank half the contents at a mouthful—but the moment he swallowed he choked again and coughed until he was blue in the face, clinging to the older prince’s sleeves as his sight began to dim. He knew no more after that, for the heavy sleep that claimed him next was dreamless and still as the grave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.


	3. Silence After Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Haru's dreams are explained, and Milad is up to no good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I am so sorry for this late update. While I do have the full story planned out, school is making it really difficult to write long fics (hence the 5-6 short fics I posted after Slain by Fire was finished) and I really can't predict when I might find time to finish the next chapter. But rest assured I'm working on them, and that this will be completed eventually!

In the morning Makoto woke to find his husband still sleeping, lying still as the grave beside him with his white hands folded on his breast. Beneath his eyes the marks of the night before were plain as day, standing like fresh bruises on either side of his nose—for Haru had not rested again until close to dawn, and the strange swift fever that followed had left the younger man wholly drained. At the sight of his sunken face the Qasrian caught his breath, kissing the arches of Haru’s brows before fetching up their breakfast; he made certain to find a half-jar of pickled pork, for after roasted fish (which could not be had in the mornings for any price) it was the food his beloved liked best.

“How does he fare, Makoto?” asked Azar, who had her broad hands buried in a lump of dough. “Has his fever gone, at least?”

Makoto no longer wondered when the kindly cook came to hear of matters before the rest of the household, for in the way of mothers everywhere she seemed to know of her charges’ mischief before a soul could tell her. She had minded the lot of them since Seijurou was old enough to walk, and after all she was made to bear when Momo cut his first teeth she declared there was nothing further under Heaven that could frighten her; when Haru came to the East she devoted herself to his happiness just as she did for the rest, and it was to her that he went when he missed the house of his birth.

“Aye, it has,” Makoto said, contemplating a flask of weak wine that stood in the tall spice-cupboard. “Would this do him ill, Aunty?”

“He would sleep like a child until the afternoon, if only he would drink it,” she grumbled. “But if I know him at all he shall not touch a mouthful, and drag himself to the training-field in spite of the healers’ orders. Nay, put it aside, Makoto! Take him some violet scones instead.”

He took the plate and departed with a smile, kissing the top of her ruddy head before she could strike him with her rolling-pin. Having filled his basket he went back to his rooms in good humor, setting out the dishes for breakfast before going to wake his son.

Milad slept in the little bedroom that had once belonged to Rei, in the half-year that Haru had lived in the city before his marriage; after the wedding it stood empty until Milad was nearly seven, whereupon the child demanded to sleep in a chamber of his own. Before then it had been only a nursery for half the babies of the family, from the little prince himself down to Rin’s twin son and daughter, but now that Milad was close upon his sixteenth birthday it looked nearer to a study than the playroom it was of old.

“You must get up, _radhiy_ ,” whispered Makoto, smiling at the lump of black and green curled beneath the blankets. “It is nearly time for your lessons, Milad. You shall be late if you sleep much longer.”

“I am getting up, Father,” groaned the prince, wriggling free of his quilts. “But is Aita well? Has Uncle Rei been back to see him?”

“Nay, there was no need of it,” soothed the father. “He is sleeping still, as soundly as a child. Go and wash, and then we shall have our breakfast.”

Once the meal was finished Haru was made to rest for an hour longer, and when the infantry’s fencing-practice began he and Makoto went to the armory together. Despite the Qasrian’s protests the younger prince refused to spend the morning abed; to his husband’s questions Haru said only that he had dreamed again of the Dhaikan siege on Sahrastan, whose memory had never wholly left him.

Milad remained in the schoolroom with Gou until noon, whereupon he bid her farewell and made his way to the jousting track to train. To his dismay he did not manage to strike his tutor even once as the hours went by, and at last the soldier put down his dull-headed spear as the prince jumped off his pony’s back.

“What is the matter, Milad?” asked Sanim, setting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You were so eager after yesterday’s lesson _._ Are you well?”

“I suppose so,” mumbled Milad. “But last night I did not sleep, and I am worried besides.”

“Aye, I heard about your _aita_ from Nagisa,” said the guardsman. “Has he been taken ill?”

“I don’t rightly know,” sighed the prince. “When I went to bed he and Father were fast asleep, and scarcely two hours later he awoke screaming so loudly that he could not breathe. He had fallen senseless by the time I returned with Uncle Rei, but still he was determined to train with the others today, and Father could not persuade him to rest himself.”

“And what of you?” Sanim inquired, frowning as he saw Milad’s quivering grasp on his lance. “Put your weapon aside, _radhiy_. We cannot ride to-day with you so. It is a wonder you stayed in the saddle all this while.”

“No, _Al’umi_ , I can ride―”

“Put it away, my heart.”

Milad hung his head and wandered away to the barrel under the awning, where the training-lances stood in the shade close to the jousting track. Once he was rid of his weapon the lad went back to sit by his tutor, vaulting up onto the iron barrier that parted the two halves of the field as Sanim reached into his bag and brought out a pair of early apples.

“The orchard’s first,” he said, smiling as Milad’s eyes went wide. “I paid six coppers apiece for them in the market, but I could not leave them.”

He handed the apples to Milad and took out an apricot for himself, climbing onto the fence beside his charge and folding his legs beneath him. For a moment they ate in silence, savoring the cool Subat breeze as it ruffled their collars in passing―but Sanim’s eyes were fixed upon Milad, who was staring into his lap as if at something far more interesting than apple-cores.

“There is something more, I think,” said Sanim, fighting a cackle as Milad’s cheeks went scarlet. “Something about a palace lady, perhaps―”

“ _Goddess,_ Uncle!” shrieked Milad, poking Sanim in the side until he laughed and rolled away. “Keep still! How can you mock me so, when you have been sighing for that white-haired temple maid these last three years and more?”

“Junaina has vowed her life to the shrine,” said the soldier, and from the sorrow in his voice Milad knew that his friend wished it were otherwise. “The temple-maidens are not permitted to marry, and I would not ask her to leave her kin for my sake.”

“I think it is a foolish custom,” grumbled the boy. “Why should the Goddess wish her children to go without love? There is no cause for it, and in the West they did away with that law an age ago.” He gave his friend a comforting pat, and for a time there was no further talk, for Sanim had drawn up his knees to his chin at the mention of his sweetheart’s name and put his veil to his eyes to keep himself from weeping.

Sanim was perhaps as good as a brother to Milad; even in the prince’s babyhood he had favored the bright-eyed sentry above all save his _aita_ and father, and it was not until Milad was eight years old that the palace learned why it was so. Sanim’s mother and Milad’s had been cousins, and save a handful of women in the city none of the townsfolk recalled that they were kin. The guard and his younger sister were the last of Milad’s blood, and so Makoto had chosen Sanim for his son’s tutor and general. Now the lad was rarely to be found away from his _al’umi_ ’s side, and after his parents and his uncle Rei there was not a soul he worshipped so dearly.

It was thus that Milad (having only lately discovered that the girl he loved had grown to love him in return) felt his friend’s pain as if it were his own; nearly five minutes passed before he spoke again, but at last he cleared his throat and broke the silence with a whisper.

“Aisha,” he said, flaming crimson to the ears as Sanim’s jaw dropped open. “I have spoken with her, and she will receive my favors at the robe-changing ceremony next fortnight.”

“ _Haza saeida,_ Milad-chan!” crowed the soldier, seizing the boy by the shoulders. “It was plain as day to all of us in the castle, but Lady Gou would not hear of a soul speaking of the matter to either of you until you had learned the truth of it for yourselves.”

“It is only the changing of the robes,” mumbled Milad, toying with the sleeve of his coat as Sanim let fly with a shout of glee. “We are not even courting, yet. But she told me she would have spoken two years hence if I had not asked her first.”

“Only the changing of the robes, he says,” Sanim snickered. “When scarcely five youths a year speak of love or courtship at sixteen― _only_ the changing of the robes! The last who dared announce it so plainly was your aunt Ran, and before that Aisha’s father when I was only a lad.”

“Well, what of it?” spluttered the prince. “I have known her since I was a baby of two, and my father knew he loved my _aita_ well enough to marry him only six moons after they met.”

“Aye, but it was not quite the same for them,” came the reply. “His highness welcomed your _aita_ into the court as his brother, and scarcely three months later he fell so gravely ill that all the kingdom feared he would die. And then after that your _aita_ was nearly murdered _twice,_ and once beneath the noses of a thousand watchers in the jousting-ring. It is no wonder they drew together so quickly, _radhiy,_ for beside their grievances they were your parents long before they ever thought of loving one another.”

“Father told me the tale when I was a little lad,” smiled Milad. “That the moment I laid eyes upon my _aita_ I refused to leave his side, and that for my crying they were made to take up quarters together scarcely a week after he and uncle Rei came to live in Qasr.”

“It must have been a shock for Haru,” teased Sanim. “The boy came to Sardahan dreading his betrothal, and before the first month was out he became a father instead. He took to it better than a woman would have done, you know―after a while we forgot we had ever known him without a baby riding on his back, and wherever he went you sat in his arms and tried to eat his buttons.”

“I did no such thing!” cried the prince, shoving Sanim off the barrier. “Don’t tell such tales, uncle!”

“Indeed you did,” said the other, shrieking with laughter as Milad chased him down the track. “Once you swallowed a pearl from Kisumi’s collar, and Makoto nearly lost his wits when he came to hear of it.”

“ _Al’umi!_ ” wailed Milad, flailing like a fish as Sanim turned to catch him. “Leave off! _Uncle!_ ”

But Sanim only chortled and sent him away for his luncheon before running to fetch his own, which he ate on the steps in the kitchen courtyard. Once he had finished his meal he returned the dishes to Azar and went to the archery pit, where he met with the men of his regiment and began his afternoon training.

*    *    *

“Your stance has gone wide, Arjuna,” called Haru.

The archers were half-way through their daily practice, and besides Seijurou and the princes only Sanim and Rayan remained from the infantry; only the generals were needed to oversee their practice, and so the pit was not half as crowded as it would be later in the evening.

“I cannot keep it without holding my knees rigid,” frowned the younger man. “How ought I to stand, then?”

“Aye, I had forgotten your ankle,” came the reply. “Is it too loosely bound?”

The archer bent and flexed the joint, wincing as his toes drew nearer to his shin. “Nay, it is not―only slower to mend than I hoped, my lord.”

“We are not so young as we used to be,” Makoto laughed, glancing wryly at his own foot; seven years past he had broken his ankle during a raid, and still it pained him whenever the weather grew cold. “But still we must go on, lad. Haru shall teach you the proper stance for hurt ankles when yours is well again, but until then I would have you look after the youths in the cavalry.”

“I will,” sang Arjuna. “But speak for yourself of age, sire! I am only twenty-four, and you ought to remember it.”

“How could he forget, _rayish?_ ” cackled Rayan, snatching a fresh roll of shafts for his quiver. “It seems only yesterday that you were a child of ten and dancing round his lordship as if you were little Milad.”

They trained for perhaps half an hour longer before the younger soldiers departed and left the others behind; after Seijurou bid them farewell he returned to find Makoto and Haru shooting together in sport as they always did, aiming at the targets at the furthest reaches of the field. The princes called forth their challenges like boys as they ran up and down the track, drawing the bowstrings to their cheeks until their fingers grew tired. Beside them Sanim was watching Rayan practice with his cedar longbow, which had only lately been returned from the woodworker’s shop in the marketplace.

As the general retreated to the bottom of the stands he squinted at Rayan’s weapon, which was nearly half a foot broader than Seijurou was tall; the silken strings seemed almost to glow in the afternoon sun, thicker at the heart where the archer set his hands and fine as fresh-spun gossamer at the grooves that bound them to the wood―

Despite himself he loosed a choking scream and darted towards Makoto, who was standing twelve paces away from his friend with Haru close beside him; scarcely an instant later they heard the cracking of the longbow’s limbs, tearing through the vaulted seats of the ring as Rayan loosed his arrow. Both he and Sanim threw themselves into the dust, scrambling away as the shot went wide―streaking towards the western gate where Rayan had aimed for the north, and scarcely a fathom from driving home in the flesh between Makoto’s ribs.

But before he could stir Haru pushed him back, so fiercely that the pair of them stumbled and fell in a heap to the ground. The arrow lifted the ends of their hair in passing, and ere the crown prince could make a sound it struck the door and did not move again.

“Makoto!” cried Sanim, running to the place where his liege lay winded with Haru clasped in his arms. “Did it―”

“Nay, I am unharmed,” said Makoto, feeling his husband’s back and shoulders for fear the barb might have grazed him. “And you, my love?”

“It did not strike me,” Haru gasped. He buried his face in Makoto’s collar, shutting his eyes as he thought once again of his dreams the night before: of his darling astride a silver war-horse, and slain in the dust by the city gates with a brigand’s arrow through his heart―

“Goddess forgive me,” swore Rayan, kneeling in the sand beside them. “I ought to have seen that the limb was cracked, _shahzada._ If you had been hurt, either of you―”

“He is only shaken,” soothed the elder prince, rising to his feet. “We ought to go in, and you shall have to find another longbow in the armory, for I do not think this one can be mended now.”

“Aye, you are right,” sighed the other. He saluted the general and departed with Sanim hurrying in his wake, leaving the princes alone with Sei in the middle of the practice-field.

“I shall have to see that all the weapons are whole, lest one should break again,” said Haru at last, answering Makoto’s kiss with a smile and turning to follow Sanim. “Will you come with me, my heart?”

“I will go, too,” grumbled Seijurou, muttering under his breath as he examined the remains of Rayan’s bow. “I saw the thing this morning, and it looked well enough then. Perhaps I ought to send to the bowmakers in Astara, if our Sardahanian woodworkers are not fit for the task.”

With that he departed with such a frown that the servants leapt out of his path, storming towards the palace gates without even donning his overgown; for a moment Makoto pitied the poor souls at the carpenter’s, but as a muffled sob echoed from the passage he ran after Haru and found him collecting the training-weapons in the armory.

For a while they examined the bows in silence, putting the ones they deemed unsound away to be repaired. Haru would not look away from his work as he went from cupboard to cupboard, and at last his husband grew weary of the quiet and went to kneel at his feet.

“You have not been yourself since last night,” he said at last, taking his husband’s hand in his and kissing the heart of his palm. “It is not only the fear that the barb might have hurt me gravely, sweetheart. Do not lie to me so, for that I cannot bear.”

“Aye, you are right,” sighed Haru. He dropped an old longbow into his lap and stared at his knees, trying in vain to steady his breath until Makoto rose and sat beside him. “I did not dream of the siege of Sahrastan, _amarya._ It was far worse even than that, and when I woke I could not believe it was only a vision until morning.”

“What was it you saw?” A warm hand stole round his waist and slowed his heart at the touch, lending him strength enough to speak as he set his brow upon Makoto’s shoulder.

“I was in the catacombs beneath the palace,” he said, shutting his eyes at the memory. “You know I have never set foot in those halls―but there I was, and there was a woman with me.”

“Did you know her, my love?”

“Nay, but I could not help but think I knew one like her,” frowned Haru. “She was young, not older than twenty-five at most. When she saw me she took me to one of the graves, and it was a double tomb; she bade me look at the names on the lid, and though I could not see the blazons for the dust the first of the names was yours.”

At this he began to weep, burying his face in his hands as Makoto drew him close to his chest.

“Then it must be falsehood,” soothed the elder prince, kissing the top of his head. “I shall never have a tomb, Haru-chan. When we were married I swore you should have a Western burning in the fashion of your people, and that I would be laid on a pyre in my time beside you. My ghost would cry out from its grave, _aynee,_ if I were made to linger in the catacombs without you―do not fear for me, my darling! If you had spoken last night I should have set your heart at ease the moment you woke from your fever, and you would not have been tormented so.”

“It was not only that,” Haru whispered. “Afterward she led me to the parapet on the terrace, and there I saw you fighting a horde of brigands before the city gates. There was a boy beside you where Sei rides, a child not yet of age. For a moment I believed he was Milad, and Sei and I were nowhere to be seen. One of the sandmen shot a bolt at his back, and you―”

“Leapt to stand before him, and took the arrow through the heart,” murmured Makoto, stilling at the thought. “Was that―”

“Aye, you did,” said Haru. The shock of Makoto’s words had dried his eyes, and for a minute he sat staring into his husband’s face with his brows lifted half-way up his forehead. “How did you know that? Has that battle come and gone, then?”

“It has,” said Makoto slowly, dropping his hands to Haru’s knees. “And the tomb you spoke of, _shin’ainaru-ko_ ―if it is the one I know it has been in the catacombs these past forty years and more, and when I was a child I went with my father to lay flowers upon it every Isha’s day.”

“Truly _?_ ” asked the Iwatobian, bewildered. “What do you mean?”

“Come with me, Haru-chan.”

He rose to his feet and took Haru by the hand, leading him out of the armory and down the passage to the flight of narrow steps at the far end of the corridor. Haru had never once set foot past the heavy door that parted the cellars from the world above, but at the tender assurance in his husband’s eyes he set his shoulders and followed him into the darkness.

There was a single oil-lamp burning within, hanging across the antechamber from the barrel of staves at the foot of the stairs. Makoto took a balsam-torch from the keg and lit it in the shallow dish, waiting for the head to throw its own light before drawing Haru closer to his side and lifting his arm to cast the glow of the flame over a silent plain of white marble crypts, stretching from north to south without end. The younger prince shut his eyes as Makoto looked this way and that, walking blindly in his wake when the Qasrian set a palm on his elbow and began to mark his path towards the center of the room. For a while they went in silence, breaking the stillness only with their footsteps and the halting pace of Haru’s breath; the Westerner dared not look at the graves, for fear he should see the maid of his nightmares standing alone in the gloom. At last Makoto stopped and put out an arm to keep Haru from stumbling, wrapping him tightly in the warmth of his mantle before he spoke again.

“Here it is, _rouhiya_.”

Haru opened his eyes and squinted at the double crypt before him, pressing his cheek to Makoto’s collar as if to make certain that his heart lay among the living and not asleep in a sepulcher like the one at his feet. The vault was precisely as high and broad as the one he recalled from his dreams, and a veil of dust lay thick on the lid like freshly fallen snow. The gleam of the carven plaque was wholly hidden beneath it, as if the dead within no longer wished their names to stand uncovered in the shadows.

Makoto took out his handkerchief and wiped the square plate clean, motioning his beloved to draw closer and look at the names etched into the shining metal. There were two of them, side by side, paired with a brace of noble blazons stamped on the gold beneath them: first a rearing horse against a ground of willows, and then―

“That is not your sigil,” said Haru. “They are nearly a match for one another, but yours is a _bahira_ , and this is an _intisar._ ”

The second crest had been carved in the shape of a lark, crowned with a pointed crest on either side of its head. Between the twin halves of its beak it held a branch of pine, and at the sight of the dusty leaves the Iwatobian cried out and sprang up to look at the glyphs inscribed above them.

ليلى شجرة الصنوبر

_Laila Matsuoka_

And beside her―

الحقيقة شجرة البرتقال

_Makoto Tachibana._

 

“I do not understand,” murmured Haru, standing perplexed at the foot of the tomb. “The Matsuoka clan is not tied to yours by blood, nor by marriage.”

“Aye, not one of my kin has ever borne their colors,” said Makoto heavily. “But if not for the battle you dreamt of Laila would have ruled Atar Qasr in my mother’s place, for my father was never meant to inherit the kingdom at all.”

“What do you mean, _jaanya?_ ”

“I was named for my father’s only brother, you remember,” sighed the elder. “When my father was still a child my uncle perished in battle before the city gates, just as you saw it in your dreams―he threw himself in his squire’s path to keep the boy from death, and the arrow smote him through the heart so swiftly that he was killed before he struck the ground. After my parents wed my father swore to give his brother’s name to his oldest son, and so I was called Truth in the Eastern tongue after him.”

“And the woman?” asked Haru. “Who was she?”

“His betrothed,” said Makoto. “She was Toraichi’s elder sister, and aunt to Rin and Gou. The pair of them were born only three days apart, and my father once told me that he had never known two sweethearts who loved one another so dearly as they did. When they came of age he gave her his marriage-ring, but upon her mother’s wish my grandfather did not give them leave to wed until the spring of their twenty-second year. My uncle was slain only a week before they were to be married, and Laila―she could not bear the pain of it, and before he was laid in the tomb she threw herself from the battlements and followed him into his grave.”

Haru drew back in horror, thinking of the place from whence Laila must have fallen to her death: the parapet that looked out over the marketplace, so high above the citadel that the blow would have killed her at once. He and Makoto often sat together there, and for a moment he wondered how his beloved could bear to stand on the soil where his uncle’s intended had departed the world of the living.

“What then, _radhiy?_ ”

“Naught that you do not know, my heart,” swore the Qasrian. “Three years after my father’s coming-of-age our legions went to war in Martulah against the Shamarrans, and in exchange my mother surrendered her crown and came to Sardahan as Father’s bride. When I was born my grandfather gave up his throne to them, and he fell to the _zurvan-_ fever scarcely two years later.”

After that they went back to the armory, where they set to work sorting the bows until Seijurou came down to drag them away for their dinners. Haru said little for the remainder of the afternoon, for though Makoto had spoken truly the elder prince did not know the truth of his parents’ marriage; neither the sultan nor the queen had seen fit to speak of it, and often the Iwatobian thought that even his father-in-law had never learned the whole of the agreement between Lord Annis of Qasr and the long-dead king of Martulah.

But still the Westerner thought no longer on the matter, for relieved though he was to know his husband was in no danger he could not forget the anguish that had plagued him the night before, nor the eyes of the woman whose resting place lay nearly forgotten in the catacombs―nor yet the frantic pitch of her voice, calling the slanted accents of his name as if she had known him in life.

_“You are known to me, Haruka, and so am I to you.”_

*    *    *

“I cannot see why you needed me to go with you,” Milad remarked, bouncing along the dusty road at Sanim’s side. The soldier held a dish of green bergamots and blue lover’s grace to offer at the shrine in the marketplace, as was his custom every Isha’s day; but that afternoon he had called Milad away from his lessons to join him, giving no reason save an aside to Gou that the prince did not hear.

“You have been neglecting the temple, _radhiy_ ,” chided Sanim, laughing as he handed a bloom to the sweet-vendor’s little daughter. “I doubt you would have said your hymns away from Haru’s altar until autumn if you were given leave.”

“Perhaps,” sang Milad. “But you were never so devout, _al’umi_ , and you need not tell me otherwise. You scarcely knew the way to the shrine before Junaina came to Sardahan, and that is the bounden truth.”

“Peace, lad,” came the good-natured reply. “Finish your prayers and take the _alaliha_ they give you, and then you can mock me as you like.”

They passed the rest of the trip in good cheer, greeting the passersby and losing half the lover’s grace to a band of dark-haired children in the leather-workers’ row before Sanim managed to make his escape. Milad nearly claimed a fruit for himself before his companion rapped the back of his head with a set of pointed knuckles, leaving the youth to sulk as his uncle took off his slippers and let himself into the shrine.  

Milad followed suit a moment later, smothering his grin with a handkerchief as Sanim bowed to a white-haired girl clad in a crimson worship-robe. She smiled and took the dish from his hands before setting it by the Goddess’s feet, turning away to ready a fresh platter for him to take back to the palace without noticing the prince’s arrival. Sanim had not seen him either; he was kneeling on the rough-woven carpet with his palms pressed flat in prayer, blind and deaf to his mischievous charge until Milad went to sit on the mat beside him. Though the lad would have dearly liked to tease his guardian in Junaina’s presence he knew better than to do such a thing in the shrine, and so he shut his eyes and prayed on behalf of his household in silence.

When he and Sanim were finished Junaina returned their platter, which had been filled with white roses and fragrant sweetmeats colored with red sugar. The guard received the dish with a flaming blush of his own, touching the maiden’s feet in salute as she accompanied them back to the carven gates.

“I wish you good-night, _jundiin_ ,” she laughed, lighting the two great oil-lamps that stood on either side of the doors. “You will return next Isha’s day, will you not?”

“Wild horses could not drag me away, my lady,” smiled Sanim. “You will see me at the stroke of the fifth bell seven days from now, as ever.”

“Very well,” Junaina chortled. “And what of you, Master Milad?”

“I shall come if my governess gives me leave,” swore the prince. “But I have taken leave of her schoolroom more often than I ought, so perhaps she will keep me until midnight instead.”

“That I do not doubt,” his uncle muttered. “What with the firecrackers you and Aisha set off under Rin’s chair at supper last week, and the night you spent in the healers’ ward after eating a bowl of green apples the week before.”

Milad made a face before grinning from ear to ear, standing on his toes to whisper into Sanim’s ear in heavily-accented Western; after his parents’ marriage a handful of Iwatobians had come to live in Sardahan, and of late the desert speech was less foreign to the east than it had been of old. As one of Haru’s dearest friends Sanim understood his troublesome nephew perfectly, flushing scarlet as Milad pranced away with the dish of sweets on his head.

_“Sanim and Junaina by the soapberry tree―”_

“Milad!” screeched Sanim, offering Junaina a dazzled grin before running down the path after his friend, who was shouting with laughter as he dashed towards the palace. “Milad, you _fiend,_ come back at once!”

He nearly stumbled in his tracks at the lingering look the priestess cast him from the corner of her eye, and a moment later she had gone: slipping back into the temple with her sisters to conduct the evening worship, as she did each day in the hour before sunset. As he began the walk back to the _alcazar_ Sanim put a hand to his collar to still the ache in his breast, for as dearly as he loved her he knew he could never dare speak his heart plainly; Junaina had come to Sardahan an orphan nearly ten years past, and the women who looked after her at the shrine were all the kin she knew. Upon her marriage she would be made to take leave of her home as the custom was for shrine-maidens, and the long-suffering guardsman would rather have bitten off his own tongue than place such a fate before her.

But still the sight of her singing by the altar brought him such joy that he was content in his silence, and the grace of her kindly company carried him through his days as well as the friendship of his brothers-in-arms. It was thus that he went back to the palace with a lively spring in his step, catching Milad in the entrance hall with an oath to work him thrice as hard on the jousting field―and thinking only of golden eyes and laughter all the while.

*    *    *

Later that evening Haru ate an early supper with Makoto and Milad, smiling into his water-goblet as the small prince chattered like a lark at the top of his lungs. Gou had called her charges together for a star-charting lesson that night, and at the eleventh bell Milad and the rest of the children were to go to the western watchtower with their maps and spyglasses; Milad had been talking of nothing else for days, and was only slightly cross when he learned that Makoto would be among the party.

“Ought you not to remain here with aita?” he asked, looking into Haru’s face as if he expected the flush of a fever to rise the instant they departed.“Suppose he should be taken ill again, Father!”

“Hush, Milad,” laughed Haru. “I am not so old yet that I cannot sleep alone, my son. Go, and do not come back again until your aunt gives you leave.”

“Very well,” grumbled Milad, running round the side of the table to wrap his arms round Haru’s shoulders. “But what shall you do until then, Mama?”

“I am going belowstairs to help Rei, and then to the Eastern tower for the second watch,” said the prince, tapping the end of Milad’s nose. “And you are too old now to call me so, _radhiy_.”

“Nay, I am not,” sang the boy, dancing away on pointed toes until he stood near the door to his bedroom. “ _Oyasumi,_ Aita _._ ”

“I shall never know why you pretend to mind when he calls you mother,” chuckled Makoto. “As if you did not clutch him close and cry when he did it first, Haru-chan.”

“I nearly weep when he says it now, my heart,” sighed Haru. “And a _shahzada_ cannot go about his business crying whenever his child calls his name. But I cannot deny it amused me to no end when he named me his mother before newcomers to the court.”

“Aye, the Alisian traders nearly jumped out of their skins,” snorted the other. “They had only seen your back, and when you turned to greet them they saw that you were a half-shaven youth and went through the palace the rest of the day asking every blue-eyed maiden they met if she was the Princess of Qasr.”

“Perhaps Milad can be forgiven that. He was only three years old, and nobody thought to correct him even once until his eighth year had gone.”

“ _Aita!_ ” cried the lad, poking his head round the doorframe and glaring as his parents as they collapsed on the divan in their glee. “Everybody has been talking of my mischief today―first Sanim when he was meant to be giving me my jousting lessons, and now the both of you.”

“When you are a father you will make fun just as we do, radhiy,” said Makoto. “You were the delight of our days even before we were wed, and not a soul had a greater hand in our marriage than you did.”

“Certainly more than I had, _jaanya,_ fool that I was―I slept and ate beside you for nearly half a year and called you father to my son before I knew I loved you, and by then you had already given me your betrothal ring to ask for my hand. But Milad, _aynee!_ did you not finish your practice-hour today?”

Milad shook his head.

“Nay, I did not,” he sighed. “He thought I was too weary to finish them without falling, and he spoke truly.”

Haru rose from his chair and hurried to Milad’s side with Makoto at his heels, setting his hand on the boy’s warm cheek and the other upon his forehead. “Are you well, my heart? You ought not to go star-charting tonight, then―you scarcely slept at all yesterday, and another night without rest will put you in the infirmary.”

“ _No,_ aita,” grumbled the prince, batting his father’s fingers away. “I promised little Hashad and the rest I would help to teach them, and if I do not go it shall be spoilt for all the rest.”

“There is our stubborn lad,” laughed Makoto. “Put on your cloak and boots, then. But if you grow tired I shall bring you home at once, and hear no protests until you are safe in your bed.”

Milad went to dress as bidden, leaving his parents alone in the firelit sitting-room. Haru sighed and smiled into Makoto’s tunic as the elder prince embraced him, shutting his eyes as the smooth-curved chin he loved so well settled atop his head.

“You will keep your eyes upon him every minute, will you not?”

“Aye, I shall not look away,” swore the Qasrian. “My heart nearly stills whenever he climbs up into the saddle to train with Sanim, Haru-chan. I cannot think how I shall fret when he is up on the battlements with three babies hanging from his back.”

“I had forgotten the small ones,” Haru muttered, wringing his hands. “With only you and Gou to mind them―”

“Nousha is the youngest, sweetheart,” said Makoto, kissing his husband’s brow. “None of the littler ones have begun star-charting yet.”

“Nousha has sense enough for the lot of them,” snorted the other, seemingly set at ease. Makoto nodded in agreement, for it was true; Ran’s little daughter had inherited her wit and wisdom in full, and at the tender age of five conducted herself with such care that not one of her many guardians ever had cause to reprove her.

When Makoto withdrew to their bedchamber to dress his husband went out into the corridor, wrapped in the fine-woven purple shawl he wore when the nights grew chill. At that hour the folk of the palace were all behind their doors, save for the sentries keeping watch; Haru greeted the younger guards as he passed, stopping now and again to speak to the ones who wished to attend his jousting-hour on the morrow. At last he descended into the entrance hall and ran down the southern passage, slipping into the healers’ ward where his brother slept by night.

When he entered he found the first room empty, save for a young girl winding bandages by the fire. In the half-light her golden hair seemed to give off its own queer gleam, striking her dark-brown eyes until they shone yellow as honey; though they shared no blood Rei’s daughter looked uncannily like Nagisa, and neither of the two had ever ceased to marvel that it was so. As Haru shut the door in his wake Noor looked up from her work, putting away the last of the bindings before running to greet her uncle.

She had come to Sardahan in her fifth year, orphaned by a spell of _zurvan-_ fever that had taken both her parents; after their deaths she had gone to live with Makoto’s cousin Mehrunisa, who had known the little girl’s mother before her departure from Martulah. But amidst her duties Mehrun could not attend to the child, and so small Noor was sent to Qasr in the care of the royal household. There she had seen Nagisa at one of his practice-hours, and when she cried in the night for her mother the princes discovered that a soul could soothe her as well as he did. After that Haru often found her sitting in the entertainers’ hall, nestled among a heap of cushions as she watched her new guardian at his dancing.

Before long she had a naming-ceremony in the fashion of the Qasrian people, altering her given name as well as her second—for she had grown besotted with the ballads Rei so loved, and so she took the name of Dahab-E-Noor after the tale that had drawn her new fathers together. But now the little Noor of old was a beaming maiden of twelve, possessed of Rei’s wisdom and Nagisa’s blitheness, and as ever it was both joy and sorrow to see her so.

“Have you come for Father, Uncle Haru?” she asked, lifting her little face as Haru kissed her brow.

“Aye, I have,” replied the prince. “Where has he gone, _radhiya?_ ”

“To the office,” yawned Noor, rubbing her eyes. “Papa! Haru- _al’umi_ has come.”

And at the sight of his brother hurrying out of the study the weight on his heart shrank away, clearing his mind and easing his step as if by the might of a spell.

“Rei,” cried Haru, breathing unhindered as he had not done since the night before. “I—”

But before he could speak Rei came forth to embrace him, and as they went back to the office he felt himself set at ease like a boy returned to the halls of his childhood.  


End file.
